Of Gods and Tailors
by Epilachna
Summary: Crossover with Highlander: The Series and Star Trek: DS9. Methos arrives on DS9 and has a chat with Garak.
1. Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

_**A/N: **_**This is for Ro's Fireplace Alliance December Crossover Challenge**

_**Background:**_

_**Methos**__ is from __**Highlander: The Series.**__ He's the oldest immortal in the world and has been many things in his long life – including one of the legendary Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. More recently he's been a scholar and likes to 'pass' as an unassuming graduate student. He's very snarky and likes to play with people. _

_**Garak **__is from __**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**__. He's currently in exile and working as a tailor on the space station. He's a former military/intelligence member, spy, assassin, torturer, etc. He also loves to play with people.

* * *

  
_**Of Gods and Tailors**

**Part One – Wolves in Sheep's Clothing**

Methos made his way to the replimat. He was hungry and although he would never admit it to himself, a bit lonely as well. At least in the bustle of the promenade he could pretend as if he were a part of something. He kept asking himself why he'd come here. He never liked traveling by ship and even spaceships made him feel a bit queasy. Even now he could feel the station rotating and stargazing only made him feel worse. Sure he'd looked out the viewport – once – since arriving on the station, to see the wormhole or Celestial Temple or whatever the locals preferred to call it. That was why he was here after all, to study the religious significance of the wormhole on Bajor.

_Hey, it passed the time. _

The gods had always fascinated him. Not that he could recall the last time he'd worshipped one. He'd seen too many in his 6,000 years, watched them rise and fall like the tide. This, however, was the first time he'd come across a religion that made some sense. At least the Bajoran's gods were real and not some make-believe phantoms. It was curiosity that brought him here. A fleeting hope that the prophets could answer the why of his existence. He doubted it, but that hadn't stopped him from taking the journey out to meet them.

Methos reached the replimat only to find it packed to overflowing. There was not a single free table in sight. Men and women and beings unidentifiable crowded around the tables enjoying their meals and each other's company. As his gaze passed over the crowd, he noticed one man sitting alone with three empty chairs keeping him company. Men stood around neighboring tables eating with their plates in their hands. None had asked to sit with him or bothered the lone man for a chair. It shouldn't have been too surprising. Methos had never met a Cardassian in person, but the man eating at the otherwise empty table could be nothing else. _Mister Garak_, the resident tailor, spy, assassin … Methos had heard enough rumors about this particular fellow to pique his interest. It wasn't every day he encountered a mortal who held as many secrets as himself, and he _could_ use a bit of entertainment.

Methos picked up his meal from the replicator and made his way across the crowded room. Arriving at Garak's table, he cleared his throat.

Garak looked up, surprised by the intrusion. He'd been reading a particularly interesting bit of news from his homeworld only to be interrupted by a young Terran man.

"Can I help you?" Garak asked with more enthusiasm than he felt.

"May I sit with you? It appears all the other chairs are taken," Methos replied, matching the Cardassian's cordial tone.

Garak kept his face in check but his thoughts were running circles around his head. _Who is this Terran? Why would he want to sit with me? Is he another Bashir … a young fool who hopes to learn more about evil Cardassians? _Garak mulled the prospect over in his mind. He was in a rather sour mood and the Terran's timing could not have been worse – _or better?_ He could always teach the young fool a lesson. What was that clever little phrase Bashir had used about cats and curiosity?

The young man continued staring down at him, and, not wishing to cause a scene in the middle of the busy replimat, Garak gestured to the seat opposite. A few patrons glanced their way as the Terran sat down at his table.


	2. Mirrors

**Part Two - Mirrors**

"I don't believe I've seen you on DS9 before, sir," Garak said, not quite asking the man's name.

Methos smiled his most amiable smile. "I just arrived two days ago. I'm here to work on some research into Bajoran spirituality – their Celestial Temple. My name is Adam, Adam Benjamin."

"Garak, resident tailor."

"So I've heard," Methos replied. His words had their intended effect.

Garak's face lost much of its former politeness. He knew this was coming the moment the man approached him. _I offer him a seat and now he thinks he can interrogate me. _"I'm pleased my reputation for offering fine apparel travels so quickly," he replied coolly.

Methos gave the Cardassian a wry grin. "I've heard your store is quite popular … though its owner," he glanced at the two empty chairs, "is less well received."

"I admit that past unpleasantness between my people and the Bajorans does not endear me to the local population."

"Or to Federation citizens, I'd imagine." Methos took a bite of his dinner.

"You didn't seem to take account of my social standing when you asked for that seat."

Methos shrugged, a long-practiced gesture that suited 'Adam' well. "I suppose I really don't care." Methos continued to eat his meal, ignoring the Cardassian with practiced ease.

Despite himself, Garak was intrigued. He'd expected the young man to be plying him with questions by now, but the Terran seemed quite comfortable ignoring him. "Why is that?" he asked.

Methos' lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile. "I was a tailor, once, a long time ago."

It was not the response Garak had been expecting and it took him a moment to come up with an appropriate reply. "You don't appear old enough to have been anything _a long time ago_."

Methos wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I should think you of all people would know how deceiving appearances can be."

Garak wasn't sure what to make of that particular comment, so he turned to another topic. "So, have you come to study Bajoran mysticism or are you merely interested in the wormhole?"

Methos said nothing regarding the change of subject, choosing instead to answer the Cardassian's question. "A bit of both, actually. I've booked passage on a science ship performing a survey of the wormhole. I don't really care about photometric readouts. I'm hoping to speak with the prophets."

"I didn't think Terrans were a particularly religious race," Garak commented.

"It varies with individuals, and cultures," Methos said.

"So, what are _your_ opinions on prophets and pah wraiths?" Garak asked.

Methos leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms casually. "How do you mean?"

"Do you believe there are forces of good and evil at work in the galaxy?" Garak wondered what the Terran's response to that might be.

Methos' thoughts raced back across ages of memory. He fixed the Cardassian with a cool, level gaze. "I've seen evil – monsters, clothed in flesh, haven't you?"

There was something in the young man's eyes when he spoke those words that gave Garak pause. Those eyes looked right through him. They were like his father's eyes, fathomless and cold. It seemed as though the man knew every one of his darkest thoughts and deeds. Garak wasn't sure exactly when the tables had turned, but there was a moment when he was absolutely certain that the young Terran who sat across from him was neither young nor Terran.

"I have," Garak answered.

"In the mirror as well as the battlefield," Methos added.

Anger rose in Garak in response to the stranger's presumption, "You know nothing of me, to make such an accusation."

"I was not referring to you," Methos replied, unfazed by the Cardassian's anger.

It was the second time in their short conversation that Garak was thrown by the man's words. One voice hissed that the Terran mocked him, while another warned of the danger lurking behind the stranger's eyes.

"If you believe in evil then you believe in good as well," Garak said when no other thought came to him.

"Absolutely," Methos replied. "I see that, too, in the mirror – from time to time."

"And what will the prophets see when they look upon you?"

"That's what I've come to find out." Methos replied. "Would you care to join me for the ride? I'm sure there's room for another passenger."

"Why would I want to commune with the prophets?"

Methos shrugged. "Maybe they can help you figure out who you are … assassin, spy, tailor. You have quite a lot to reconcile."

"And what about you? Who are you?" Garak asked, for once not trusting his own ability to read the motives of another.

"I told you. I'm Adam … religious historian, tailor, warrior chief … I have documents to cover it all. As for what I _want_. I wanted a seat and a bit of company. I thank you for providing me with both."

With that Methos stood, and Garak watched him depart. The latter spent much of the evening pondering their strange conversation, disturbed by the suspicion that he was no longer the most dangerous man on the station.

* * *

_**A/N:** Reviews are my food. _


End file.
